


It's the Pits

by NancyBrown



Series: My Third Season [12]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen, Pregnancy, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-24
Updated: 2011-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NancyBrown/pseuds/NancyBrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cravings are no fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the Pits

**Author's Note:**

> Written for pocky_slash's writing chat thingy. Get a prompt, write for 15 minutes, post. Prompt: write about lunch

It's a peach. She takes a moment to breathe in the scent: just overripe, just releasing that good, fresh smell when she gives the tender, fuzzy flesh a squeeze. The first bite is tart, the second sweet, the third so juicy she dribbles down her chin. If anyone else were here, she'd be embarrassed, but Martha is alone in her kitchen with her peach, and she can wait for the damn napkin.

She doesn't think of them as cravings yet. Sure, she couldn't think of anything else except this peach for the last hour, but she was in meetings until half one and she's finally home. She's supposed to be extra hungry now, anyway. So it's no wonder that, once her first savouring bites are done, she devours the rest in just a minute, licking the sweetness off her fingers.

She's caught in a memory: waking through the wreck of Georgia, in the States, picking peaches from abandoned trees and eating as she went from frightened town to frightened town. She used to fill her knapsack with what she could find, and half the time, the people she met had even less food than she, and she emptied the sack right out again, as she filled their minds with the story.

Now the story is finished and Martha has peaches whenever she wants them.

And avocados. Oh God, she wants an avocado right now. She searches through the pile of fruits and vegetables she keeps on the countertop, selects one that's just soft enough, and slices it in half with a sharp knife. Pit gone, pulp into a bowl, mashed with salt and pepper, her mouth is filled with the creamy taste. This will go well with some toast, she thinks.

She stops.

She looks down at her abdomen.

"Fine," she says, wondering if the baby can hear her yet. She doesn't know developmental stages, has to research them, maybe this afternoon while she puts her feet up. And after a large strawberry smoothie, with a banana mixed it for texture.

Martha grins.


End file.
